Lost Sheep
by Mrs Pepperpot
Summary: At a low point in her life, Clarice Starling gets an unexpected call from someone she never thought she would hear from again. Can the screaming lambs ever be silenced?


**I've always had a soft spot for Hannibal Lecter… I recently re-watched Silence of The Lambs and Hannibal and the idea for this one-shot popped into my head, so I went with it. I'm not satisfied with the title but I couldn't come up with anything else.**

 **This story mostly follows on from the movies, but there are a few elements from the books in the mix, too. I am also pretending that the movie of Hannibal ended with the alternate scene kiss between Dr. Lecter and Clarice Starling. In that version, Clarice didn't cuff him to her and Hannibal didn't cut off his hand. Again, I am visualising the characters more as they were in the movies rather than in the books.**

 **I hope you all enjoy reading this, and please do let me know what you make of it. - Mrs. P.**

* * *

Lost Sheep

 _"The best revenge is to be unlike him who performed the injury." - Marcus Aurelius, Meditations._

Clarice Starling pulled over and reached for the water bottle she'd stashed in the passenger side footwell of her beat up old Mustang. Her shoulder ached and she popped a couple of Advil to dull the pain. Her recent bullet wound had healed well, leaving a neat scar, but she'd been driving for almost ten hours straight. Many years had passed since she last saw the rocky landscape of Montana. In the fall sunshine, the scenery left her awestruck. As a child, she'd only seen the harshness of her surroundings, not the beauty. Her hair whipped around as she leaned her head out of the open window and drew in a deep breath. The fresh crisp mountain air filled her lungs and she closed her eyes to savour the moment. After months spent under the crushing weight of F.B.I scrutiny, media intrusion, and taking crap from every other person who took it upon themselves to poke their nose uninvited into her business, Clarice relished a taste of freedom. Maybe she could thank divine intervention for getting her away from it all, she mused. _God would have to be as twisted as Dr. Hannibal Lecter to come up with something like this;_ her lips quirked into a wry smile at the notion.

Good Shepherd Ranch was the last place on earth she ever expected to see again. When the call came through, informing her that the rancher she hadn't laid eyes on for over twenty years was on his deathbed and wanted to see her, she almost told him he could go to hell. But, when it came down to it, it wasn't as if she had anything better to do. Clarice couldn't bear to keep wallowing in anger, stumbling over the wreckage of her life and wondering how it all got so fucked up. She had been forced to take a long hard look at herself, and what she saw was a world-weary woman, well into her thirties and without family or friends to speak of. There were only so many times she could drown her sorrows before it became a problem. Everything she ever cared about was gone, her career, her allies, and even, her nemesis. Not that she felt sure he deserved that title; he'd been on her side in a twisted kind of way. Clarice had ended up with quite a knife collection in her back but his blade was not among them. The certainties she once clung to had been stripped away, leaving her floundering. Before she could move forward, she needed to go back to the start, to the place she visited so often in her nightmares. Maybe by helping another else find peace, she might find some for herself. Taking another deep cleansing breath, she started the car engine. It was time the lambs were silenced, once and for all.

The main ranch buildings were situated less than a mile from the town of Livingston. There were over four thousand acres of rangelands and deep coulees nestled in the surrounding rolling foothills. The sheep and horses were long gone, having been slaughtered or auctioned off after the rancher's health began to fail. Milton Reed was a decent man at heart. Having outlived his beloved wife Annie, and with no other family, he sought to make amends to his late wife's only living blood kin. Apparently, the man Clarice so angered as a child felt some measure of guilt for abandoning her to an orphanage. When she received the news that Milton Reed was dying and wanted to see her, reconciliation was the last thing on her mind. But after months of turmoil, the idea of making peace began to get more attractive to her. Forgive and forget, that's what people always say, and why not? She hoped to at least be capable of the former if not the latter.

Arriving at the dimming of the day, Clarice parked her Mustang outside the modest farmhouse. The shadow of the adjacent barn loomed over her and she quickly turned her gaze away. Blinking her eyes against the barrage of images that filled her mind, she willed herself to stay calm even though her heart pounded in her chest. She took a moment to compose herself, facing her demons could wait until she had rested after her long journey. Perhaps she was delaying the inevitable moment of truth, but she reasoned there was no hurry. Besides the grim certainty of the rancher's imminent passing, she had no itinerary to follow. But she could hear the familiar voice in the back of her mind that forever mocked, taunted, and occasionally, soothed her. He knew she wasn't a coward, he still called her one. Heaving a sigh, she pulled out her overnight bag from the backseat of the car. Nothing felt familiar to her, except the barn; that place had been indelibly burned into her memory. The two months she'd spent living there as a traumatised ten-year-old evidently left little impression of home comforts. With a creak, the farmhouse door opened and a plainly dressed stout woman, who looked to be in her fifties, greeted her.

"Better late than never, I suppose," she declared without a trace of warmth. "Mr. Reed doesn't have much time left."

Clarice gave a tight smile in response. "I got here as soon as I could," she lied.

Flying would have been quicker; it took her the best part of three days to drive across the country.

The woman ushered her inside.

"You're Alma Henry?" Clarice inquired, ascertaining from her voice that this was the same person who had called her on the rancher's behalf.

"I am," she confirmed. "My late husband Noah worked for Mr. Reed for the best part of thirty-five years, man and boy. I came to help out with the house when Mrs. Reed got sick over ten years ago."

The smell of fresh pine hit her first as she crossed the threshold, but soon after came the festering scent of infirmity.

"Shouldn't Mr. Reed be in a hospice or some such?" Clarice inquired as she noted the woman's weary appearance.

"Mrs. Reed died in her own bed and that's what her husband wants to do," Alma stated, sounding somewhat affronted.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to imply…" the younger woman began, "I'm sure no one could care for him better than you."

Mrs. Henry nodded appeased by her sincere smile and kind words. "Some volunteers from our local Lutheran church come by to help out when they can, and then there are nurses and the doctor," she explained before dropping her voice, "and besides, the cancer has spread to his lungs and his brain too, so it won't be long now."

Clarice was led upstairs to the small bedroom she had briefly occupied once before. The house had been kept clean and tidy, but everything about it looked worn. Whether the floral wallpaper, which hung from the walls, was the same as when she last stood before it over twenty years ago, she couldn't say for sure, her memory of it as faded as the print. The small brass-framed bed looked vaguely familiar as did the hand-stitched quilt. On the floor, lay a well-trodden Indian that she remembered liking.

"Get yourself settled in, and I'll go tell Mr. Reed you're here," Mrs. Henry instructed her. "I'll get us something to eat after, but we'd best not delay your reunion too long."

Clarice nodded her understanding. The prospect of spending even one night in her old room made her shudder. She wished she had insisted on staying in town like she planned. Gingerly, she sat on the edge of the bed as hot tears stung the corners of her eyes. She blinked them back, annoyed to be losing control of her emotions so easily. _What would Doctor Lecter say if he could see me now?_ The thought made her sit up straighter and stilled the storm inside her. Why she should care about his opinion, she didn't know. Unconsciously, she touched a finger to her lips and began slowly tracing over them. Mrs. Henry's sudden reappearance made her start.

"He's more in the next world than this one, but it's the best you're gonna get out of him," she said as she beckoned her to follow.

Clarice crossed the landing to where a door with peeling white paint on it had been left ajar. The face, or what was left of it, of the last bedridden man she had visited popped uninvited into her mind. Not that she expected to find anyone as monstrous as Mason Verger waiting for her on this occasion. She pictured the rancher as he'd been the last time she saw him. The image had dimmed with time, but she remembered his angry grey eyes well enough. In the dull light, she could just about make out his thin frame under the comforter. He was hooked to a drip and an oxygen mask rested next to his face. The room was a musty mix of potpourri and the medical paraphernalia that accompanies impending death.

Milton Reed stirred, his head turning slightly to greet her. "Clarice, is that you?" He rasped, hopefully.

"Yes," she replied, her voice as whispery as his, "it's me."

The old rancher made a low gurgling noise in his throat. "Wasn't sure you'd come," he spoke haltingly and with great effort.

A fleeting image of Jack Crawford flashed through her mind. Her mentor suffered a massive coronary when news reached him that she had fallen into Hannibal Lecter's hands. He had collapsed, cursing both himself and the day he first put her on the Doctor's radar. Clarice wanted to see him and tell him there was nothing he needed to be sorry about, but he never regained consciousness.

"I've asked God for his forgiveness, and now I'm asking for yours." Milton Reed brought her back to the present with his wheezy words. "Annie made a promise to your mother to take care of you, and I made her break it. I failed in my Christian duty."

What could she say? Clarice looked down at the pitiful shell of a man, more dead than alive. Absolution was what he wanted, and it wouldn't cost her anything to give it. The orphanage wasn't so bad; she never got mistreated. Besides, once her father had gone, things were never going to go back to how they were. And Mr. Reed did let her keep Hannah, for that kindness alone, he deserved to rest in peace.

Her words were earnest and her smile sincere. "I forgive you."

The rancher appeared to be satisfied and he closed his eyes. His breathing became increasingly laboured and Mrs. Henry came into the room to replace the oxygen mask over his face.

"Watch over him while I go get dinner ready," she instructed. "He likes to be read to from the bible." Alma pointed to where a leather-bound book lay open on the nightstand.

Clarice picked it up, seeing the page had been marked at the parable of The Good Shepherd. It was Mr. Reed's favourite; he had even named his ranch after it. An inappropriate snort of amusement escaped her and she masked it as a cough. She sat in quiet contemplation for a moment; a good shepherd may save his sheep from being slaughtered by a wolf, but eventually, he leads them to their deaths. Did it matter if they fed the wolf or landed up on someone's dinner table when the end result was pretty much the same? Since the age of ten, Clarice had made it her mission in life to try and protect the sheep. She placed herself between the lamb and whoever would do it harm. Sometimes the lambs lived to see another day. More often than not, they didn't. She had always stood apart from the flock, never part of it, even when she'd tried hard to be. Where did she belong? Dr. Lecter called her the answer to Samson's riddle; the honey in the lion. He regarded her as unknown and unknowable to the Philistines. It turned out he understood her, more than anyone else ever did. It had been her job to try and understand him. She stared into the abyss and it had winked back at her. Many times, she replayed their last encounter in her mind. It was a matter of record with her former employer or a version of it, at least. The truth of his tender parting kiss, she kept to herself. Clarice didn't expect to see or hear from Hannibal Lecter again, but the possibly secretly excited her. The old rancher slept peacefully at her side. His breaths were shallow, if steady, and she flipped to a random page in the bible, softly reading it out.

 _"Behold, I send you forth as sheep in the midst of wolves, be ye, therefore, wise as serpents, and harmless as doves."_

* * *

After a perfunctory meal, Clarice settled down by the fireside. Barely able to keep her eyes open, she fought against her weariness, anything to keep from going back upstairs. While she had been eating her mutton stew, a pregnant young woman called Sally showed up to sit with Mr. Reed for an hour or two. Evidently one of the Lutheran church congregation, she'd brought her knitting and some fresh flowers with her. Clarice sipped at a weak cup of tea mourning the absence of her hip flask. As she'd been left to her own devices, she got up to search the cupboards for something stronger.

"You won't find no devil juice in this house if that's what you're looking for," Mrs. Henry warned as she marched down the stairs.

Covering her shame at being caught out, Clarice shrugged. "As I recall, it's not forbidden for Lutherans to drink alcohol," she stated reclaiming her place by the fire.

Mrs. Henry gave her a withering look. "Perhaps not, but some folks need only their faith to sustain them. Maybe your church takes a more liberal view on these things." Her distaste was apparent.

Clarice felt her temper stir but she managed to bite it back. "I confess, I am pretty open-minded," she confirmed, her thoughts turning to a certain lake house. "Though, not as open-minded as some." Her private joke made her smirk.

"He's stopped breathing, come quick," Sally shrieked from the landing.

The next couple of hours were a whirl of activity. After the doctor came the undertaker. The rancher had breathed his last putting a swift end to their reunion. He'd been hanging on for her forgiveness, and since he'd got it, he evidently didn't see any other reason to stick around. Clarice fell asleep in the armchair by the fireside and no one disturbed her. A veteran of sleeping in odd places, it was just before dawn when she awoke with a sore neck. The embers in the grate were barely glowing, and there was a chill in the air. Pulling the old knitted blanket around her shoulders that Mrs. Henry had draped over her, she got up and moved to the window to watch the sunrise. The barn cast a menacing shadow in the first light of morning. Her dreams hadn't disturbed her, but as she stood in the silence, somewhere in the back of her mind, she could hear someone calling to her. For a moment, she thought she saw a dark figure standing by the barn door. In the blink of an eye, it disappeared, if it had ever been there in the first place. At such an early hour, she was inclined to put it down to a trick of the mind. However, her instinct, as always, was to investigate. Creeping out of the house, Clarice carefully unlocked her car and took out the small pistol she had stashed in the glove compartment. Other than the dawn chorus, she could hear nothing else. The area around the house had been well trampled from all the night-time callers. Edging towards the barn, her eyes darted from side to side as she kept alert. There were footprints in the dirt, but she couldn't tell from looking how fresh they were. Tentatively pushing open the barn door, she stepped inside.

"Hello?" She called in a soft voice, and yet it still seemed to echo.

No reply came; it was as silent as the grave. Shivering in the cool morning air, Clarice was reluctant to linger. To her surprise, she found being inside it didn't trouble her like she imagined it would. It wasn't the scary place she now realised had been partly concocted from years of nightmares. The memory of the screaming lambs itched like an old scar, but she was pleased to feel no lingering distress. With her decision to return in search of peace of mind validated, she returned to the house and went to bed. Sometime later, a brusque knocking awoke her from a dreamless slumber. Clarice glanced at her watch and saw it was almost nine-thirty.

Mrs. Henry stood behind the door, stern-faced and impatient. "Someone called for you," she said. "He didn't want to leave a message."

"Did he, at least, leave his name?" Clarice frowned, knowing she hadn't given the number out to anyone.

Mrs. Henry shook her head, "Said he'd call again, later."

The younger woman rubbed the sleep from her eyes.

"I guess you'll wanna get cleaned up and fix yourself some breakfast. I've got errands to run. The funeral's set for tomorrow morning at eleven, and I've got a lot to do between now and then." Mrs. Henry explained as she turned to leave.

"If you need any help just holler," Clarice called after her.

Speculation about the identity of her mystery caller occupied her mind as she washed, dressed, and made her way down to the kitchen. The only true friend she had left was Ardelia Mapp, and since the business that drove the final nail in the coffin of her career with the FBI, she hadn't seen much of her. Forced to leave her old place due to press and public intrusion, she had been living out of a cheap motel. It had been a stopgap until she decided what the hell she was going to do with the rest of her life. The little she cared to keep from her past, she'd packed into the trunk of her Mustang. No one knew about her trip to Montana unless her movements were under surveillance. There were still a few among her former colleagues who believed her to be in league with Doctor Lecter. Maybe they thought she would lead them to him. Gulping down a strong cup of coffee, she heard a car pull up to the house. A tall thin man, with slicked-back, thinning ginger hair and round-rimmed glasses, got out and knocked at the door. He looked to be around forty and wore a pinched expression like he was sucking on something sour.

"Would you be Miss Clarice Maribelle Starling by any chance?" He inquired.

"Yes, I am, who are you?" she asked.

The man extended his hand, which she tentatively shook.

"My name is Clancy Cooper," he explained. "Mr. Reed was my godfather and he named me executor of his will." He paused to forage around in his jacket pocket. "Uncle Milt, as I called him, wrote this letter a couple of months ago and he asked me to deliver to you upon his death." He passed her a plain white envelope with her name scrawled on the front, declining to come into the kitchen for a coffee. "I'll leave you to it, then," he announced as he headed back to his car.

Clarice frowned, her gaze fixed on the letter in her hands when a thought occurred to her. "Did you call ahead before you came here?" She inquired. "Mrs. Henry told me a man called and asked to speak to me, but he didn't leave a message."

Clancy shook his head. "Alma told me you were on your way here when I called in to see Uncle Milt yesterday morning. After I heard the news of his passing, I figured I'd come over first chance I got and give you that letter."

"Thank you for your trouble," Clarice said and watched as he drove away.

She went back to the kitchen table and sat down. The envelope contained one sheet of thin white paper, which was less than half-filled with a black ink scrawl, obviously written in a shaky hand. It took her a bit of examination before she could make it all out.

 _Dear Clarice,_

 _I am not a man of fancy words, so I'll keep this short. God is calling me home and I am glad to answer that call. Since my Annie died, I've missed her something awful, and I can't wait to see her again. She made me promise on her deathbed that I would find some way of making amends for sending you away. I heard about your recent troubles with your job and I figured you could use a fresh start. To that end, I am leaving you half of my estate. I have already struck a deal to sell the ranch, and I got a good price for it. My attorney reckons you will get a clear million dollars, and probably more after everything has been settled. Money is no substitute for love and care, but my hope is that it will ease you on your way. God bless you and keep you in his light._

 _Regards,_

 _Milton Reed._

"Jesus fucking Christ," Clarice exclaimed as she dropped the letter on the table. Her decision to come to Montana had paid off in ways she never expected. "Guess I won't be scrubbing out motel rooms like my mommy, after all, Doctor Lecter," she sneered and let out a giddy giggle that was quite unlike her.

The old rancher was right; there were some things money couldn't compensate for, but it would buy back her freedom to choose what she wanted to do with the rest of her life. She could carve out a new place in the world without worrying about how to pay for it. Perhaps she could travel and indulge in a few of the finer things in life. She had contemplated working as a private detective to help fill the hole leaving the bureau left behind, but that could wait. Refilling her coffee cup, Clarice raised a toast.

"This will have to do until I can get a hold of some devil juice," she smiled. "Here's to you, Milton Reed and to Annie too, thank you."

* * *

After the funeral, there didn't seem any point in hanging around. Mrs. Henry decided to go and spend a few days with her daughter and son-in-law in Billings. She told Clarice to lock up and leave the key in the mailbox when she was ready to go. With the ranch sold, it only remained for them to clear out the Reeds' personal effects. The entire house contents were being donated to the Lutheran church, excepting any keepsakes Clarice wanted. She hadn't planned on taking anything, but she found a couple of old photographs showing her mom and Annie as children, plus a locket which once belonged to her grandma. Slinging her bag into the trunk of her Mustang, she was surprised to see the barn door ajar. The sun shone above her but the fall weather was volatile and there were grey clouds on the horizon. It wouldn't do to leave it open, in danger of flapping about if the wind got up. She was about to pull the door closed when she heard a clattering noise from inside. Torn over whether to go back for her gun, she risked peeking into the barn. There was definitely someone in there; she could see a shadow moving slowly across the floor.

"Good morning, Clarice," a familiar voice drawled, each word akin to an intimate caress. "Do come and join me, won't you?"

Her breath caught in her throat, and old instincts had her contemplating running to her car.

"The world will always be more interesting to me with you in it," he assured her. "But, by all means, go and get your gun if you feel you need it."

Clarice hesitated briefly before stepping inside the barn. "Dr. Lecter," she bobbed her head in acknowledgement as he stood less than twenty feet from her. "I thought we'd already said our goodbyes."

The check flannel shirt, faded jeans, suede jacket, and cowboy boots he wore caused her to bite back a smirk.

"When in Rome," he smiled, unable to hide his own amusement at his attempt to blend in with the locals. "Actually, the last time I was in Rome, before that unfortunate business with Signor Pazzi, I wore some exquisite three-piece suits cut to perfection from the finest Italian cloth."

Having researched his expensive tastes, she did not doubt it.

"I feel like maybe I should go boil you up a pot of chitterlings, just like momma used to make," Clarice teased. "It must really chap your hide to be dressed like one of us white trash cowpokes." She knew her usual cargo pants and t-shirt combo wasn't going to earn her any style points with him.

Dr. Lecter tilted his head slightly as his eyes drifted appreciatively over her slender form. "You, my dear, manage to make even the drabbest of outfits look charming."

She blushed at his compliment and had to turn away from his penetrating gaze. "I thought you'd be long gone by now," Clarice remarked, "considering how important your freedom is to you." Her tone brittle as she recalled their last encounter.

"And miss this?" Lecter's eyes twinkled with glee, "Not for all the world."

There were a few dusty old hay bales stacked in the pen that used to hold the lambs. Making her way over to them, she took a seat. The Doctor moved closer, but he didn't sit down beside her.

"How does it make you feel," he asked almost salivating, "to be in the very place your nightmares sprang from?"

Clarice heaved a sigh. "I've been in darker places," she said, giving him a pointed look.

"Hmm, ex-Special Agent Starling, you were always a slippery one," he fondly chided, taking a seat only inches from her.

His close proximity did not cause her to shrink from him.

"It occurred to me that maybe I've been looking at things from the wrong angle all these years." She paused to get a better notion of what she wanted to say. "I never told you about Hannah, did I?" She teased, knowing full well she hadn't.

"Our little game of Quid pro quo was rudely interrupted, as I recall." The Doctor pictured his brave Clarice as she was unceremoniously dragged away from him in Memphis. "I presume that, whoever this Hannah was, she fared better than your screaming lambs."

"This place used to be a sheep and horse ranch," she reminded him as if he needed the prompt. "The horses were old and lame, considered no good for nothing but turning into glue, fertiliser, and dog food. There was one blind mare that the rancher and his wife let me ride around the yard on. She wasn't old but without her sight, her days were numbered. When I got sent to the orphanage at Bozeman, I begged and was allowed, to take her with me. I called her Hannah, I don't know why." Her eyes misted over as she thought about her childhood friend.

She was an endless source of fascination to him, and Lecter thrilled at the idea of the years he could spend probing into the deepest recesses of her mind. He couldn't resist needling her. "How heartwarming, and yet, it was the memory of the screaming lambs you held onto. What will they do now, do you think, without you to protect them?"

Clarice turned to face him, fixing him with her steely blue eyes. "I'm going to enjoy the silence while it lasts, Doctor."

Her reply surprised him; he'd always liked that about her. Not many people could do or say anything he hadn't anticipated well in advance. It should have made him wary, but she excited him more.

"I get it now," she said with a sigh of resignation.

"What do you get, Clarice?" He inquired his features schooled to give nothing away.

"How little value my father held in the eyes of the people he served. To them, his badge and clock were worth more than his life. But to me, he was my whole world. I wanted to be just like him, and I almost was." She paused, feeling angry all over again about the manner in which her career ended. "Verger and Krendler expected you to kill me. It would've made it easier for a whole lot of people if you had." Part of her wondered if that was the real reason why he'd left her alive. It was much easier to accept, more so than the possibility he might actually care for her or love her, even. "Not one of those sumbitches at the F.B.I could bear to look at me. It wasn't just that Paul helped set me up, or that I was right about the plot against you, they couldn't handle the fact you didn't kill me. Instead, you saved me and treated my bullet wound."

"May I?" Lecter reached out his hand, and she allowed him to slip her shirt down over her shoulder. He traced his finger slowly across the neat line of her scar.

His touch made her shudder, and not with revulsion. "I never thanked you," she murmured contemplating a way to make up for it. Before she could think better of it, she leaned in and covered his lips with her own. It was a tame but tender kiss, and the Doctor appeared pleased with her gesture.

"Run with me, Clarice, we could have some fun." His eyes burned into hers, challenging her to accept.

She smiled. "You did once tell me I ought to get more fun out of life."

Dr. Lecter stood up, poised and with his back straight. "I came halfway around the world for you, Clarice." He held his hand out to her. "It didn't take your numerous attempts to bash me over the head at the lake house for me to realise you weren't ready to leave your old life behind. But I can see you've gained some perspective since I left you by the bay, and the life of a chambermaid would never do for you. Must I really wait a thousand years?"

She stood in silent contemplation, still and unyielding. "What if it - whatever this thing is between us - doesn't work out? She inquired, acknowledging their bond and mutual attraction even if she wasn't sure what it amounted to. "Would you ever allow me to walk away?"

"I would rather cut off my own hand than harm you, Clarice."

He meant it, and she believed him.

"All right, Dr. Lecter, I'll go on the lam with you."

"I think, my dear, it's time you called me Hannibal," he said as they joined hands.

Something so wrong shouldn't have felt so right, and Clarice briefly wondered if she would live to regret it. What would her mother, father and Jack Crawford say if they could see her now? She knew they would never have understood, but her decision was made.

"C'mon then, Hannibal, show me how the other half lives."

 **The End.**


End file.
